I once asked my mother how she and Simon fell in love. She told me, for the hundredth time, the story of how they met. He was a graduate student in Classics, she was an English major who wrote poetry, both believed secretly in fate. Once they realized that they not only shared a passion for Plato, but had been raised in the same stultifying town, they started to see the handprints of destiny everywhere they looked. That same destiny brought me into being before they were married, and between my mother’s longing for respectability and my insistent need to be fed, they went back to Pawsupsnatch to take reliable jobs at the high school and public library.
But that wasn’t the information I wanted. I wanted a bulletin from the world of adult love, some succinct secret to the mystery of passion.
My mother took a long time to think about this. “In the beginning,” she finally said, “we thought we were two halves of the same whole. Later we realized that we simply loved the same books. And we loved you, of course.”
“You mean that was enough?” I squealed.
My mother looked at me, bemused. “Books and a child turned out to be plenty for me,” she said.
When I was 16, my mother died of ovarian cancer. In some dirty nook of his conscience, I think Simon saw her death as the ultimate sign that he’d failed at love. Twelve years later Gabriel came along. My father didn’t seem to care who he was, or what he wanted; he just clung to Gabriel’s body as if it were the last lifeboat on a desolate sea.
Maybe Simon thought that at some point down the road, he would see absolute beauty through a drifter with hazel eyes and a brass ass.
The last week of August, I made dinner for Simon and Gabriel every night. Guilt stripped my appetite, but it made me want to cook like crazy. The china rattled in my hands as I set out the plates.
“Are you all right, Agatha?” Simon asked.
I saw something besides concern in my father’s face, a plea, or a challenge: Don’t take him away from me, or Go ahead and try.
“The catfish is terrific, Aggie.”
Gabriel stuffed a forkful of fish into his mouth. He winked at me. I scowled and fussed with the napkin in my lap. An angry red lovebite marked the inside of my thigh. I had been coming when Gabriel gave me that bite. He had five fingers curved up inside my cunt like a funnel when he bit me in the softest part of my leg, and I went over the edge.
“Nothing like catfish fresh from the lake,” my father said.
We had bought the fillets at Shop ’n’ Save. Every time I lifted my fork I could smell Gabriel’s musk on my hand.
That afternoon Gabriel stole a rowboat from the dock of someone’s summer cabin, and we rowed out to the middle of the water. We had told Simon we were going fishing, but the only pole that came out on that expedition was about eight inches long.
We sprawled in the boat, our legs intertwined, and rubbed suntan lotion into each other’s skin. If anyone had been watching, they might have wondered why we applied lotion mainly to the parts of our bodies that were covered by clothes. The ruddy head of his erection was nosing its way up through the waistband of his shorts, and the seat of my skirt was slippery with my arousal. My cunt must have known, even if my brain didn’t, that life was going to take a peculiar turn in the next week. How else can I explain why I ordered Gabriel to eat me right there in the boat, instead of dragging him over to the sheltering trees along the lake’s shore?
He grinned. “You don’t care if we attract an audience?”
I growled, spread my thighs, and pushed him down.
Leaning back, I closed my eyes against the sun. Under the tent of my skirt, Gabriel’s head bobbed as he tongued me. The boat rocked crazily, shivering with the pounding of my pulse.
“You’ve never been this turned on,” Gabriel said, his voice muffled. “You’re soaking wet.”
“Shut up. That tongue wasn’t made for talking.”
But he was right; I’d never felt such a primitive, unselfconscious lust. The rude midday sun blessed us, the sexy waa-waa of the insect chorus mocked my sense of propriety, and I felt like the gods of desire were urging us on. I hooked a leg under Gabriel’s thigh and applied a steady friction to his crotch. His cock, still trapped in denim, was a hot, dry bulge against my shin. Suddenly he groaned and pulled back. His spine arched. His body trembled. He bit down hard on my thigh as he thrust against my leg, spilling come onto the floor of the boat. I stared up into the sun as I climaxed, watching the light pulsate with my cunt’s throb, knowing I could be bat-blind when it was over but not caring if I lost my sight.
Needless to say, the boat capsized. We had to slosh around the Shop ’n’ Save like drowned rats to find our dinner.
If I’d known that would be the last time Gabriel made me come, I would have made him eat me till his jaw locked. I would have made him lick my pussy till his tongue bled.
Two days before we were supposed to go to Greece, I decided to leave work early and go home. I don’t know why. I’d never had a premonition before, and I’d rather not have one again.
I found Gabriel crouched on the floor beside my bed. The mattress had been pushed back. His fingers shuttled rapidly; for a second I thought he was saying the rosary. But it wasn’t beads he was handling; it was my money. I kept a cash hoard under my mattress, in case the bank ever got hit by a tornado.
Gabriel looked up.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting ready for our trip.”
“Bullshit.”
Gabriel clambered to his feet. His backpack dangled from one shoulder.
“Leaving already?”
“Yep.”
“Without me?”
He sighed.
“Have you really been to Greece?”
“Sure,” he said.
But I knew that even if he were telling the truth, Gabriel hadn’t been to the Greece he’d promised me. He’d been to a scorched, sweaty place, crowded with disappointed tourists who couldn’t find the Greece they’d imagined, either.
“Get out of here,” I said. “Take the money and get out.”
It took every ounce of willpower I had to say that. A rabid animal was clawing at my gut, frantic with need. Then there was Simon. I didn’t even want to think about my father’s fragile heart.
Gabriel let his backpack slide off his shoulder. I knew what was coming. He walked up to me, standing so close that his chest grazed my nipples. Wary as an animal tamer, he circled me with his arms, then let his hands settle on my waist. Through the fabric of my skirt his thumbs hooked my panties and slid them down. They slithered to the floor like something small and valueless drifting into murky water.
“One more time, Aggie,” he said. “Let me fuck you one more time.”
I unbuttoned his fly and pulled out his cock. He was already fully erect, as if my pain had turned him on. I didn’t want that sorcerer’s wand anywhere close to my core. I knelt and took him in my mouth. No seduction, no ceremony, just a hard, angry suck, the kind of release he might get from a stranger in a public restroom. I gripped the root of his shaft with one hand and tugged with my lips, letting my teeth scrape his skin. He yelped; I dragged harder. His body tensed.
I usually didn’t swallow, but today I wasn’t about to stop. I gripped his ass and drew him deeper than I’d ever taken him, so deep that I almost choked. For a moment he was absolutely still, then he bucked and yelled. I let him shoot his bitter sap down my throat, knowing it wasn’t safe, but needing to memorize the flavour of his particular evil.
“I’ll never forget the way you taste,” I said when I had caught my breath, “you taste like a lie. Now get out.”
Leaving, Gabriel didn’t make a sound. I felt him depart, though. The daimon. The spirit who comes and goes between worlds.
After Gabriel left, I took a walk. I ended up walking all the way out to the lake where Gabriel and I had made love. I conjured my father’s face in the water and rehearsed what I would say.
Gabriel’s gone.
No, Daddy –
My father would know we were heading for an emotional shitstorm if I called him “Daddy.” He’d been “Simon” to me since my mother’s funeral.
When I got home, the house was dark. Simon must have found out already. He was probably halfway to Texas by now, driving madly through the darkness, searching the highway for Gabriel’s Dodge.
All night I waited. As soon as a respectable wedge of sunrise appeared, I called the high school principal at home.
“Simon’s gone,” I announced, too tired to be frantic any more. “I’m going to need help finding him.”
“Finding him? What for?”
“You mean you know where he is?”
“Why, Simon got on a plane to Athens yesterday! Took a leave of absence so he could travel in Greece. Big dream of his. I wasn’t thrilled at the short notice, but with his heart, you know . . . Agatha?” The principal’s voice rose to a dumb-founded squeal. “Where the heck have you been?”
Agatha?
Was that me?
Where had I been? So fuck-drunk that the town gossip hadn’t reached me. Once I landed at the bottom of my shock, I looked around and saw sense in the depths. My father and I had a hard time with love, but we were even worse at dealing with pain. Of course Simon hadn’t told me he was leaving. I’d never planned to tell him about my escape, either. We’d both gotten passports, purchased tickets. The only difference was that Simon got away first.
I could fall in love with you in Greece.
Father or daughter – the object of lust hardly mattered to Gabriel, who could pound everything sacred to a pulp with his magic cock.
This is the way I justified my father’s flight, after I’d talked things over with the Simon who occupies my head. If Simon hadn’t gone to Greece with Gabriel, he would have gone alone. But his destination would have been a Greece of his own making, and you wouldn’t see him in this world again. He’d be having dinner in some Athens of his mind, a world of immortal light. Every once in a while, a nurse would come by with a pleated paper cup and order him to swallow some pills.
Blood is thicker than water, yes. But you don’t crave a glass of blood when you’re dying of thirst.
Hell, I hope Simon earned his ticket to absolute beauty, grabbed Gabriel’s cock, and took that gorgeous bastard with him. I have no idea where Gabriel is, but in my optimistic moments I imagine he’s still with Simon, drinking retsina at some taverna by the sea and listening to my father weave his own theory of love.
Dirty Pool
Thomas S. Roche
“Are you listening?” Frenchy Carver smacked me on the side of the head, trying with only moderate success to get my attention away from the blonde, who had just smiled at me and made me the happiest man alive. Simple minds, simple pleasures.
I grabbed his wrist “Watch it, Frenchy. Don’t get between me and the next ex-Mrs Brewster.”
Josie’s Gin Joint was packed six deep with wanna-bes, gamblers, and mobbed-up pool fans getting pickled in anticipation of tomorrow’s big win at the tournament.
“Don’t let your dick be your guide tonight, buddy. You got an amateur hour to win tomorrow morning.” He pulled his wrist free and lit my Cuban with his Zippo.
“Just enjoying a little eye candy,” I said, without taking my eyes off the blonde.
“Well, pay attention, Brewski, because me and Johnny Bourbon and Joey Donato got twenty yards apiece riding on you.” He turned to Johnny Bourbon, who happened to walk by at that moment. “Hey, John, what’s the name of the guy Brewski’s up against tomorrow?”
“Blackie Snyder,” said Johnny Bourbon as he walked by. He leaned down to pat me on the back. “The name of the black queen Brewster here’s gonna wipe the table with is Blackie Snyder.”
“He’s a spade?”
“Course he’s a spade. With a name like Blackie?”
“And how do you know he’s a faggot?”
“He’s from Frisco, ain’t he?” said Johnny. “Jesus, Mike, don’t you read the fuckin’ papers?”
I shrugged.
“Look, don’t fuckin’ make a joke out of it,” said Frenchy. “Why do you think I got you over at the Sands? Teddy SouthSide’s got a lot of prestige riding on this spade, and so does Big Johnny Frisco. Those West Coast motherfuckers might try something.”
“That must be why you got me loaded down like a one-man band, smartass.” Frenchy had given me two guns – a compact Glock nine, which I’d duct-taped under my dashboard, and a little Colt .380 in my cue case.
“You’ll fuckin’ thank me if anyone tries anything. But I don’t trust your shooting, Brewski – I saw you at the range.”
“I shoot pool, not guns.”
“That’s why I got Sam and Dave following you.”
“That’s fuckin’ crazy. It ain’t necessary.”
“Sixty Gs, motherfucker. That’s how much we got on you.”
“Tell those two Peeping Toms not to get too close.”
“I’ll tell ’em,” said Frenchy. “You’re gonna lay the blonde, ain’t you, you fuckin’ pussyhound?”
“If it’s the last goddamn thing I do.”
I was watching the blonde again. She had uncrossed and recrossed her legs, giving me a quick view of the full length of those gorgeous gams.
“You won’t try to lose Sam and Dave?”
“I won’t try to lose them.” I was already looking at the blonde, who had leaned forward against the bar just enough to stretch what little there was of her dress tight across her back.
“You promise,” growled Frenchy. “You’ll let ’em tail you so nothing goes down. Be serious here, Brewski.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I promise.” I polished off my Scotch. Frenchy knew I played better when I’d had about two hours’ sleep the night before and recently acquired carnal knowledge of some sweet young thing.
I saw the blonde lean close to Josie, the bartender, and then slide down off the bar stool. She started coming my way.
“I see you’re about to receive a visitor,” said Frenchy, and he and Johnny vanished into the crowd.
The blonde was even more of a looker up close and personal.
“Hello,” she said – sexy, but with just a hint of timidity. “You’re that pool player guy, aren’t you?”
I chuckled. “I’ve been called lots of things, most of which I can’t repeat in the presence of a lady. But ‘that pool player guy’, I’m happy to say, isn’t one of them. Mike Brewster at your service.”
“So it is you! I’m a huge fan,” she gushed. “You’re all over the news. Everyone knows about you – you’re a heck of a pool player.”
“Something else I’ve never been called,” I said. “Have a seat,” I offered her.
“Oh, I couldn’t – I mean, could I? I saw you talking to your friends . . . I hope I didn’t chase them away.”
“Of course not,” I said. “Have a seat. And you are . . .?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.
“Oh, God,” she said. “I’m so rude! Sorry. My name’s Ginny Mott. I’m from Florida, but I’m up here on vacation. I didn’t think I’d ever get to meet you in person! But now that I have, I’m hoping I can talk to you a little.” She sounded really nervous.
I nodded, smiled.
She blurted: “I’m a pool player, you see. I’m in town to see the tournament tomorrow – I just love watching really good pool players!” The girl was positively perky with enthusiasm. “I was wondering if you’d give me any pointers. I’ve been practising since I was a little girl, and . . . well, I hate to say it, but I’m awfully good.”
“Your modesty is becoming,” I ribbed her, and she blushed. “What do you want to know?”
“Well . . . I just . . . I was wondering how I know if I’m good enough to go pro.” Now she was leaning close to me, and I could smell her perfume – something expensive.
“You must be mistaken. I’ve never gone pro,” I said.
Ginny blushed again – this time, just a li
ttle. “Oh, I know that, well, I mean, everyone knows why that is.”
“And why is that?”
“Oh, you make more money this way . . . you know, under the table money. Everyone knows you’re mobbed up — ”
She froze, blushed deeper, looked at the floor.
“I’m saying too much,” she said. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr Brewster — ”
“Call me Mike,” I said, leaning back and puffing my cigar. “No offence taken. Where do you practise?” I asked her.
“My daddy runs a diner. It has a table – in the back room.”
I chuckled. “It’s no use telling you, of course, that pool is not an appropriate game for a lady to be playing.”
Ginny got a wicked look on her face, and smiled.
“Tell you what,” I said. “How would you feel about a little mini-tournament, between, say, you and me?”
“Oh, my God, are you serious!” She was laughing. “I could never – I mean, I would lose, for sure, right?”
I shrugged.
“Oh, Mr Brewster, I would love that! Me, playing against Mike Brewster! Would you really want to do it?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, eyeing her upper thighs. “Only one thing. I have a minimum wager on every game.”
“Minimum wager?” Ginny looked suspicious.
“It’s modest. Five bills.” When she looked blankly at me, I said, “Five hundred dollars.”
“But . . . I barely scraped up enough money to fly up here!”
I chuckled. “Well, since you’re a beginner, I would be willing to make alternative arrangements.”
“Really? You’d do that?”
“No need for you to risk your money on a game of pool. I think we could find something a little less . . . painful for you to part with. In the event that you lose I think you’ve got something that’s worth five hundred dollars.”
I took out the five Franklins I’d won from Dakota Joe earlier that night and held them up as Ginny watched, transfixed.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2 Page 10
